


Pretty Hurts

by LinguistLove_24



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cutting, Doctor/Patient, Drug Use, Healing, Light Angst, Other, Therapy, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguistLove_24/pseuds/LinguistLove_24
Summary: Original WorkThey say ugly is hard, but Samantha knows better than most that pretty hurts too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This original work of fiction is the property of its author, should not be used or replicated in any way without prior consent and is intended to bear no resemblance to real persons or circumstances.

Pretty Hurts

“Can you tell me a little bit more about how your relationships at home have been faring?” The therapist, Johanna Chamberlain - forty four with a mulatto complexion and brown hair forever falling in tight curls around her face – sat crossed legged in her office chair with a yellow legal pad in her lap, pen in hand raised slightly aloft, ready to scribble information over faint blue lines.

 

“Same as usual.” The adolescent opposite her was lying sprawled out atop the ever talked about 'therapist couch', eyes shut, hands clasped together over her midriff. “They don't really pay attention to me. Say hi and bye, otherwise I'm pretty invisible.”

 

The elder woman eyed her with sympathy, gaze softening. “Have you cut again?” 

 

“Not in a month,” she said proudly, corners of her mouth lifting into a half smile.

 

“I'm glad to hear that.” 

 

Looking in from outside, one would be inclined to describe Samantha Dickson as beautiful, perhaps even flawless, self assured. If the outside always matched what lay within, they wouldn't be far wrong. Not quite halfway through her sixteenth year of life, she'd been seeking out Johanna's counsel since the tender age of thirteen. The beginning of puberty had seen her struggling at home, and eventually in turn struggling with herself. 

 

From quite young, she'd partaken in risky behaviours. Reckless and meaningless sex, experimenting with drugs, pills and alcohol, and began cutting as a way to numb the pains and outwardly air the grievances which continually plagued her. Johanna knew that her parents had been made aware, that she'd tried to talk to them, but they'd allowed themselves to get preoccupied enough with things that didn't matter to a point where blind eyes were turned. She was almost certain that if Sam were given love and attention of the right kind, the kind she deserved, most of her recklessness would cease. It was also her job as a professional in the position which she was, to make the teenager aware that her admissions meant they had to come up with coping skills and a concrete plan to manage life differently because if they didn't, she was required to take serious action as a mandated reporter. 

 

“What about school? How's that going?” she knew when she broached this subject the waters became a little easier to tread, she breathed a little easier, opened up a little more.

 

“It's all right. My grades are good. I made the honour roll again.” 

 

“Good for you,” Johanna smiled at her. As a mother of three herself, she saw a lot on the job she couldn't wrap her head around. Some clients were in even more dire situations than Samantha, some were luckier, but as a therapist she had to remain impartial and without judgement. The profession she'd chosen had taught her a lot about people, about empathy, that pain was universal. Even though she wasn't supposed to, she took her work home with her more often than she'd ever admit, and became attached to those she attempted to help. 

 

“Mum and Dad didn't really say much,” she said. “Stuck the letter of recognition on the fridge and that was pretty much it, but Karalee noticed it and bought me a cake.” Samantha's voice brightened considerably at the recollection of her older sister's attentive actions.

 

“That's really nice.” Johanna knew she was closer to Karalee than the rest of the household. Maybe because she was away at school and didn't live with everyone else any more, maybe they'd just naturally gravitated toward each other. They weren't by any means inseparable, but she drove Sam to therapy and the younger of the two did divulge more to her than she did most people outside of the four walls she now found herself encompassed by. “Did you do the assignment I asked of you at the end of last session?” 

 

Every week or so, depending on how often or little it appeared necessary, Johanna had her do what she'd aptly named 'throwing the garbage away' – a technique she used on many a patient where she gave them a crisp new journal, told them to go home and find a quiet space, and write down everything that was eating them up inside. It didn't have to make sense or come out in any particular order, so long as it was bled out onto the paper. During their next sessions together, she would ask the patient to read aloud what they had written, they'd talk about it if necessary, and then she'd have them rip it up and throw it away. This continued until all the pages of the journal she'd given them had been filled and ripped out and then the cycle would repeat itself. She thought of it as a sort of purging experience, but a healthy one. She saw the difference in people once it started to help. 

 

“Yup,” she affirmed, opening her eyes and sitting herself up so as to be able to pull the folded sheaf from her jeans' pocket.

 

“Will you read it to me?” 

 

Nodding wordlessly, Samantha unfolded and ran a hand over the page to remove its creases.

 

“What's this one called?” Johanna asked her, knowing she always titled them though she'd never asked her to.

 

“Pretty hurts,” she said, gaze cast downward as she began to read: 

 

“They tell you if you're beautiful, people notice you. Heads turn, whistles blow, crowds flock. As I sit here, cross legged atop garden's grass, the song of birds echoing around empty space as they fly toward unknown destination above my head, I can tell you the kind of beauty I've had bestowed upon me is superficial; the thought held by so many that it actually matters an asinine one.

 

“All of my five feet and three inches, straight blonde locks, perfectly complexioned face, flawlessly proportioned torso, wide smile and bright shining eyes, none of this can even will her own parents to pay enough attention to see beyond it. Therapy and sister bring comfort and solace of a healthier nature, far and away from that of pills, booze and the numbness that coated my skin as I tore away layers of my own flesh, tried to will pain to become something tangible so I could find it and rip it away, bringing it to the outside. 

“The hallways I walk down are filled with people who greet me warmly, give me once overs with their eyes, compliment me for being smartly dressed. Those same eyes doing the dance of the once over see me smile, throw my head back and laugh. They believe the happiness to be genuine. I know it to be fleeting. Others with more brains than looks are quick with utterances about how ugly is hard, ugly and smart even harder.

 

“Maybe nobody ever told them that pretty people don't have all the answers, pretty people have to work on themselves too. They build themselves up, tear themselves down. Maybe they don't understand that pretty people cry tears too, and those tears stain the fabric of their pillows just as obviously at night. Problems are hard, and pretty people have problems too. They'll tell you beauty matters, it's a gift, that ugly hurts, but pretty hurts too.” 

 

Johanna watched intently, not speaking a word as Samantha slowly began without being prompted to shred the paper, not even trying to wipe away the tears falling slowly down pretty, porcelain cheeks.


End file.
